


there's a piece of you in how i dress

by wishforwishes



Category: Harry Styles (Musician)
Genre: Angst, Coming Out, F/F, Fashion & Couture, Gender Dysphoria, Gender Identity, Identity Issues, Oral Sex, Trans Female Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-01
Updated: 2020-08-01
Packaged: 2021-03-04 23:49:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,932
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25334920
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wishforwishes/pseuds/wishforwishes
Summary: Three days later, he calls her from halfway around the world to say, “I wish I was like you sometimes.”“Like me how,” she whispers into the phone, as softly as she can and still be heard. It’s a rhetorical question. Giving him leeway to change course, if he isn’t ready to say it. But he must be, because he’s silent for only a moment.“A beautiful girl.”“Chérie,” she responds readily, “You already are.”***Camille does the right thing for the wrong reason.
Relationships: Camille Rowe/Harry Styles
Comments: 4
Kudos: 43





	there's a piece of you in how i dress

**Author's Note:**

> (obligatory disclaimer: this is fiction and not meant to imply anything about the actual personal lives of any people featured.)

**March 15th, 2018**

Camille calls Harris first. She’s never actually met them, but Harry’s talked to her about them so much that she almost feels like she knows them already. At the very least, she knows enough to be unsurprised by Harris’ instant agreement to what might have seemed an odd request to someone else. 

“Are you kidding, that sounds amazing,” Harris says cheerily once Camille’s laid down her plan. “My friends and I were _just_ having a pout about how many of our designs for class end up never being used. They’re gonna flip!” 

“And you’re sure they’ll all be okay with not attending the show they submit designs to?” Camille presses, not wanting to deal with disgruntled fashion students at the last minute. 

“Of course,” Harris assures her. “Once I tell them Alessandro Michele will be in attendance, they’ll all be more than happy to hand their dresses over. We could all use the exposure.” 

“It’s not just exposure. Gucci will pay for each finished piece that’s sent to us,” Camille tells them, even though she hasn’t so much as spoken to Alessandro about any of this yet. 

But Harris is even more ecstatic to be able to pass the promise of a paycheck along to their classmates, telling Camille that she can count on at least a dozen dresses by the deadline she set for next month. 

“One more thing,” she says, right as they’re saying their goodbyes. “Would you be willing to walk in the show? You’d be only one of three models, but —” 

Based on the high-volume shrieking that ensues, Harris is on board with that too. 

**March 18th, 2018**

It’s a few days before Camille can work up the courage to set a meeting with Alessandro, but by then she has Harry Lambert on her side. 

Even with their powers combined, she worries that she’s got more balls than common sense: FaceTiming the creative director of Gucci and asking him to sponsor and attend a private, completely off-the-books fashion show with three weeks notice.

Alessandro is quiet for a bit. Camille can see him fiddling with his rings at the bottom of the tiny phone screen she and Lambert are hunched over. 

“This is for Harry Styles,” he says, finally. Lambert raises his eyebrows in surprise, as they haven’t actually mentioned Harry by name, but Camille understands. Alessandro, by necessity of his job, has a way of seeing through to people’s very core once he’s looked at them long enough. And he’s probably spent even more time looking at Harry than she has, given he’s been considering Harry for the new face of several upcoming Gucci campaigns. 

“It is,” she confirms. 

“Then I will do it,” Alessandro says instantly, as if it were the simplest thing in the world. 

**February 27th, 2018**

She and Harry have spent the last dozen hours together in her bed, sheltering against the press of reality. His upcoming tour hovers like a spectre in both of their minds, and Camille knows that neither of them are capable of managing a long-distance relationship without getting restless. But it’s hard to think about the inevitability of them falling apart later on when she’s falling apart on Harry’s tongue. 

This is the third time he’s eaten her out since they crawled between the sheets this morning. She’s sitting on his face this time, and every so often she grinds down just that little bit harder, knowing he likes feeling like his breathing’s about to be cut off. If it were anyone else, she’d be feeling too tender to really enjoy herself by now, but Harry has a way of wringing pleasure out of her that she’s never encountered in a lover before.

Soon enough, she’s clenching her thighs around his head and coming yet again; even with her mind scrambled, she’s quick to roll off him and to the far side of the bed, so she doesn’t collapse on his face and suffocate him. He crawls over to her, but he must be able to tell she’s too winded for a fuck after all that, because he merely lays his head down on her chest and starts jerking himself off. 

Camille rouses enough to pet his hair a bit as he does, murmuring soft words of encouragement in both French and English. But even the gorgeous sounds he makes as he brings himself to orgasm can’t affect her enough to hope a round four is likely any time soon. 

So instead, they just lie together for a bit. Once he’s come, he wipes his hand on her duvet, grinning when she shoves him and calls him an overgrown teenager. 

“At least once your tour starts, my bed will stop being so regularly disrespected,” she says. 

She's always quick to wield a joke to lance a wound. Maybe too quick, as Harry's brow wrinkles, guilty and caught. 

She tries a balm instead. 

“But I won’t be spending much time in my own bed, either, once I start to prepare for Paris Fashion Week. Although of course Burton wants us to already be _pre-preparing."_

She puts just enough disdain into the final word to make him giggle and relax, stretching out onto his side: proper pillow talk mode engaged. 

She relaxes in turn, curling herself into the lanky length of him. Her arms curve around his back and she presses her palms to his sweaty flesh, reveling in the rewards of their exertion. 

“Is it true that Burton is using synthetic feathers in all of her designs?” he asks.

“No, that was the last designer who took over the McQueen name,” Camille says, relishing the chance to be catty about the outfits she’s soon going to be stuffed into. " _Burton's_ current fancy is using sequins in every design.” 

Harry lets out a honk of laughter at that, clapping his hand over his mouth. 

“So you’ll be strutting on stage in glittery suits while I’m walking the runway in ridiculous glittery dresses. Together, even when we’re apart,” she says, her voice going sotto voce to turn the last bit into an overwrought declaration. 

This is the second of her jokes today to fall flat. He seems to turn almost churlish at her words. 

“Right,” he says shortly. “I’ve got the suit side of things, you’ve got the dress side. The perfect fashion couple.”

She can feel his back muscles tightening up under her hand, and she’s not sure where she’s misstepped here, but she’s not willing to discard the afterglow they’ve spent a whole day working themselves into. 

“Oh, no, I imagine I could look better than you in some of your suits, too,” she says, teasing gently but also testing the waters. 

“Probably so,” he says in return, just as lightly, but his body’s tension doesn’t uncoil even slightly. 

“And I imagine you could look better than me in some of my dresses,” she continues, watching his face closely.

If she’d looked away for a second, or even just blinked, she’d have missed the way Harry’s face collapses into a pained grimace at her words, before instantly rearranging itself into a smile and eyeroll. 

“Yeah, that’d be a sight,” he says, clearly thinking that she’s still joking. Camille isn’t sure _how_ serious she was being, but it’s obvious that she’s just cut him very deeply without even meaning to. She grabs his face between her hands, as if a sturdy grip alone could stop up her mistake. But it can’t — he’s pulling his face away, not meeting her eyes, and she needs to find the words to fix this quickly. 

“It _would_ be such a sight,” she says, letting her voice swim with breathiness. “You are already so beautiful, I think adding a beautiful dress would be —” she bites her lip, searching for the most sincere way to phrase it, before deciding English will only fail her in this task. 

“Au-delà de la croyance,” she finishes. _Beyond belief_. Harry’s learned enough French from her to not have to ask for a translation. He presses his lips into her palms as if he can’t form a response. But she waits. And waits. 

**March 2nd, 2018**

And three days later, he calls her from halfway around the world to say, “I wish I was like you sometimes.”

“Like me how,” she whispers into the phone, as softly as she can and still be heard. It’s a rhetorical question. Giving him leeway to change course, if he isn’t ready to say it. But he must be, because he’s silent for only a moment.

“A beautiful girl.” 

“Chérie,” she responds readily, “You already are.” 

**April 5th, 2018**

Lambert sends her a photo of his flat in London; every metre of the tiled floor is covered with garment bags, sent over by Harris and their fellow fashion students. They are all taking the preparation for the show seriously, and Camille is no different. 

She’s sent out embossed invitations to a select few people. Tom Hull gets one, because she and Harry met through him and she knows Harry would want him to be there. Harry’s backing band are essential invites as well, of course. Alessandro and Harris’ are sent mostly for show, as they’re both obviously going to attend. 

But it’s all for show, in a way. Everything is being done in order to cast a pall of legitimacy over this, like it could almost be one of the smaller events Camille walked for early in her career. She doesn’t want it to come off a shallow imitation, or like they’re all just playing pretend for Harry’s sake. It’s almost more for Camille, because she so desperately wants Harry to know that she understands. She wants to prove that despite the distance between them, she can see through to Harry’s core, just like Alessandro, and embrace all she finds there just as steadfastly. 

**March 7th, 2018**

_She._

Camille takes the day off. She’s probably sending her agent into an anxiety spiral, but she finds she doesn’t care. She finds a café quietly buzzing with morning commuters and settles into a corner settee, with her fully charged phone gripped in one hand and the largest mug of coffee on the premises in the other. Thus armed, she begins her task: to stare intently at every photo of Harry she has ever taken. 

_She,_ she thinks as she looks at each one. _Her. My girlfriend_. 

Harry had said she wasn’t fussed about pronouns, and Camille could refer to her however she wanted. It was probably the truth, but it’s _also_ probably true that Harry doesn’t have anyone in her life who will refer to her as a woman: either because Harry hasn’t confided in them about her feelings, or because they’ve taken her at her word that they don’t need to change their vocabulary. Camille wants to get it right — wants to spend this time shaping the words on her tongue so she doesn’t stumble over them later on.

It will be both easier and harder, once Harry’s tour starts next week. 

Easier, because she will be able to watch her on stage every night, via a grainy livestream (or in person, on a few special occasions). She’ll be able to see in motion what still images and the limitations of human memory fail to convey.

All of Harry’s gestures and tics, minute or overt. The magnetism of Harry’s stage presence, the sway of her hips to the beat of her own music, her confidence and bashfulness rolled up together and somehow not contradicting one another. All of it can be recategorized as feminine — as the movements of a woman — in Camille’s mind. 

It’ll be harder — immeasurably harder — because on those few special occasions that Camille will be there in person, Harry will leave the hypnotizing bubble of the stage to go home with her for the night. 

It’s one thing for her eyes and her mind to rewrite a body she’s already learned, but what of her own body? Once it’s occupying the same space as Harry’s once again? How will she navigate the way they move together, especially in bed? 

A high-pitched shriek of laughter jolts Camille out of her worries, and she looks around guiltily for a moment, searching for the mind-reader amused by the erotic direction her thoughts have taken. But of course, it’s just a woman deep in conversation with a friend, a few tables away, who isn’t paying Camille any attention. 

No one is looking at her, or knowing where her mind is wandering off to, as she lets her grip on her phone go slack and sets her mug, now half-empty, onto the arm of the settee. The coffee is slowly going cold, but Camille’s temperature is rising fast. 

Yes, things would be different, now that she knows. Just like their past dalliances are coloured differently by that knowledge. All the worship that Harry has lavished upon her in bed — the celebration of her sex and the divinity of her womanhood — it was never just the selfless affection of a lover giving oral sex. It was also reverence for a state of being that Harry believed she could only hope to echo. 

Camille can think of nothing sweeter than to prove her wrong, and give those attentions back to her in turn. But how to go about it?

Maybe she would run her hands greedily up Harry’s legs and wrap them around her waist. Perhaps she’d even make a comment that they’re as long and shapely as any model Camille has ever shared a runway with. Harry might blush at that, and bury her face in Camille’s neck, leaving her back bared for Camille’s hands to continue their upwards journey. 

But instead of delighting in the broadness of Harry’s shoulders, as she might have in the past, she would concentrate on how those shoulders tapered into a small waist: an almost hourglass shape, in the right light. She might wrap her hands around that waist — anchor her grip at the midpoint of Harry’s body — even as her mouth went further up, to Harry’s breasts, smaller than hers but certainly not the smallest she’s ever seen. 

Camille would suck and bite her nipples for ages, until Harry was raw from the stimulation and giggling in mock-reticence, hands fluttering softly and pushing her back — maybe even wrapping the sheets around her chest like a makeshift dress, as if trying to protect her tits from the onslaught. But those hands would be sure and strong, too, as they guided Camille’s head down and between her legs, to do something about all the desire she’d swelled into being. Camille would push that sheet up like it really was a dress and happily oblige. 

And oh, the thought of Harry in a dress. Just simple linen to start with: nothing showy or fancy. Harry would want to be comfortable, and assured by that comfort that her dress wasn’t a performance but simple preference, like the plainer shifts Camille owns. The kinds of dresses they could pull over their heads effortlessly after rolling out of bed, finally sated. 

They’d make an idyllic picture, she imagines. Two lovestruck women indulging in a stroll after indulging in each other, their dresses billowing gently in the spring breeze. As if carried by that soft wind, an image drifts into her mind, in the fine company of an idea.

Camille snaps out of her daydream to find the light in the cafe has changed. A server pointedly clears a table of mugs nearby, saying with body language that Camille has overstayed her welcome. Her own mug of coffee is stone cold now, and her phone has disappeared into the cushions of the settee. 

She digs it out, not frantically but with the peaceful assuredness of a woman on a mission, and opens her notes app. 

_To-do: ask around for Harris Reed’s phone number._

**March 14, 2018**

Camille isn’t sure at first why she’s woken up. The bed she’s lying in is cool and soft, and she can feel that Harry hasn’t stirred beside her. But when she opens her eyes she sees that Harry is awake too, and staring at the ceiling with a conflicted look on her face. 

She’s surprised to see it. After the show in Paris last night, Harry had claimed that she was very tired, and would just like to go to bed, so she could rest before she had to leave for Amsterdam in the morning. She’d been apologetic, but Camille had told her there was no need for an apology; it was enough just to be able to hold each other again. 

None of it had felt like a lie, but Camille had wondered while drifting off if Harry felt nervous about having sex now that she had shared her truth. If she had worried, just like Camille, that things would be awkward and too different. Harry being awake now, in the pitch-dark first hours of the morning, seems to confirm that suspicion. 

“Are you alright, mon chou?” she asks, handing out the endearment in exchange for the smile that cracks the pensiveness of Harry’s face. She does so love pet names, Camille’s found. 

“I’m fine,” she says, turning onto her side and pillowing her arms under her head. Camille shuffles around until she mirrors her position, the two of them facing each other as they whisper into the dark. 

“It must be hard to sleep after the rush of performing,” Camille says, but Harry just lifts an eyebrow: silent incredulity at what they both know is bullshit. 

“I didn’t want to put any expectations on you,” Harry says, continuing a conversation they’ve never actually had. But Camille has no trouble understanding. 

“That’s very sweet of you,” Camille says, her own brows now mockingly raised, “but _I_ had sort of expected that my girlfriend and I would get to fuck each other last night, after half a month apart.” 

Harry’s cheeks bloom red and Camille pulls her close, ready to ensure that the rest of her body flushes with pleasure as well. 

It’s only after, once they’ve reacquainted themselves and Harry is actually on the verge of falling asleep, that Camille asks the question. 

“If I wanted to do something for you, would you let me?” 

Harry nuzzles into her sleepily with a small sound of confusion. 

“I just did,” she responds, reliably cheeky even when her brain is offline from exhaustion and orgasm. Camille shakes her head fondly.

“I mean, a surprise. Something nice. I want an opportunity to give a pretty present to a pretty girl.” 

“Well, how can I say no to that?” Harry asks, smiling wide. 

**April 10th, 2018**

Harry’s first London show is tomorrow night. She’ll be playing at the O2, in front of thousands upon thousands of people. But in a few hours, she’ll be part of another show, one where less than a dozen people will be in attendance. 

Camille decides that showing is the best way of telling, in this case. So when Harry’s train arrives at King’s Cross, she’s there to swoop her up and take her to the venue. The drive is comfortably quiet for a little while, the two of them holding hands like high school sweethearts in the back of the car. It’s only as they’re pulling into the complex’s car park that Harry notices where the driver is taking them.

“Why are we going to Lambert’s apartment?” She asks, cocking her head at Camille. 

“We’re not,” Camille tells her. 

“We’re going to the terrace at the top of the building. I rented it for the evening,” she continues, knowing it won’t clear up the confusion on Harry’s face. In fact, the bemused lines of her expression twist a bit deeper, only to go slack with incredulity as they park next to a flash vehicle instantly recognizable as part of Alessandro Michele’s retinue.

“What have you done, Camille?” There’s a flutter of nervousness in Harry’s voice. 

“You’ll see soon enough.” 

What Harry sees once they reach the top floor, and what Camille has only seen pictures of thus far, is not so different from certain high-concept fashion shows. 

A large white tent stretches around the perimeter of the terrace: gauzy enough not to block the city’s twinkly lights, but opaque enough to keep the identities of those within shielded from a telephoto lens’ evil eye. 

As for those within, everyone Camille invited has already arrived and are mingling politely with each other. She’s particularly delighted to see that Harry’s band, rather than clumping together, are engaging a bubbly Harris in conversation. Their gesticulations indicate they’re discussing the simplistic runway Lambert’s people set up earlier in the day, complete with a darling sign advertising Harry, Harris, and Camille as the models walking tonight. Tom and Alessandro look on, nodding politely. 

All this Camille sees in the few seconds after the lift doors slide open, although she can’t hear what anyone is saying and none of them have noticed her and Harry’s arrival. This ends up being a boon, as once those few seconds have passed, she notices that Harry has not moved forward, but rather backwards, into the corner of the lift. 

“I’m going to ask again,” she says, staring Camille down. “What have you done?” 

It’s at this moment that Camille begins to worry she’s overstepped. The lift doors swish closed again, sensing that enough time must have passed for its occupants to step out. 

Camille reaches out and presses the button that will take them down to Lambert’s apartment floor. As the lift shuttles on its way, she tries to explain her plan. 

“I thought it would be fun to do a little fashion show tonight,” she reveals. “Harris and their friends contributed their work, and I told everyone I invited that it was a way for us to support young designers. And Alessandro is curious to see how you walk as a model, so we thought you could share the runway with Harris and me.”

“And what’s the actual reason,” Harry says, her tone too clipped for it to sound like a question.

“To give you an excuse to put on some dresses for a night, and enjoy yourself,” Camille tells her.

The lift reaches its new destination. Harry strides out immediately. The straight line of her normally slouched back is the only reaction Camille gets to her words. So, an ice-out, then. Not the ideal reaction she had hoped for. 

At least they’re both still going to the same place. The effect of Harry storming away is lessened when she has to stop in the corridor and wait for Camille to unlock Lambert's door for her. He’d gifted her with his extra key yesterday, saying she might want to show Harry the dresses beforehand. But she’d wanted the extravagance of a surprise, and hadn’t listened. 

“Can we at least talk?” Camille ventures, after thirty seconds of them both just standing in the entryway, the door up against their backs. 

“I don’t know,” Harry says. “If we go the rest of the way into the apartment, are there going to be a bunch of showy couture dresses laid everywhere that would make me look like a clown?”

Ah.

“We didn’t see the point in bringing along any outfits like that,” Camille says, eeling her way into the lounge and hoping Harry follows. It turns out this _is_ something she has to show, rather than tell, after all. She just has to downplay, rather than playing up. 

She can see the upset melt away from Harry’s face once she sees the dresses spread out. 

“They’re so casual,” she says, voice muted. 

“Yes, Harris and their friends wanted to practice bringing their high fashion designs down to earth for a change.”

“Harris designed some of these,” Harry says, as if that’s not something Camille already told her a few minutes ago. It must be surprising, considering the ruffles and larger-than-life camp styles Harry is used to seeing from them. 

“Of course. They’re also walking with me tonight.” _As are you if you want, Camille_ is wise enough not to say again. 

Harry studies the nearest unzipped garment bag. Slowly, like a child in an art gallery extending a hand out to a statue she knows she’s not allowed to touch, she reaches out to feel the fabric of the dress. 

“I thought,” Camille ventures, choosing her words more carefully this time, “that maybe we could just have fun? Trying them all on, and getting your friends’ opinions about which ones to keep for ourselves.”

Harry relaxes at that, and Camille decides to swear everyone else to secrecy about the glossy invites and Gucci sponsorship. Clearly she’d gone too far in her enthusiasm. 

It makes sense that Harry wouldn’t want all this to be a performance. It’s why Camille had started thinking of laidback and simple dresses in the first place. She doesn’t know how she turned it into some huge production in her head.

As if sensing her thoughts, Harry steps a little closer, so she can rest her forehead on Camille’s shoulder.

“Thank you,” she says. “It’s a sweet idea, really. But you don’t need to go to all this effort to — to prove anything to me.”

 _It wasn’t an effort_ , Camille doesn’t say, because that would be a baldfaced lie. She spent a great deal of time over the last month putting all this together. But she still wants Harry to understand that at the same time, it was quite easy. That loving Harry exactly as she is has, despite her worries, come more naturally to Camille than Harry seems to believe could be possible.

But she doesn’t want to have that conversation now; not when she’s found a way to salvage the evening. 

“Shall we call Harris down and start getting changed, then?” Camille asks. Harry smiles shyly and nods. 

**April 11th, 2018**

It’s after midnight and Mitch, Sarah, and Clare are still arguing over whether the blue A-line or the sunflower print was the best dress of the night. Well, Sarah and Clare are arguing, and Mitch has been enlisted as Sarah’s back up, even though he seems confused about what an A-line even is. 

Harry’s not wearing either of those dresses right now, though — since she, Camille and Harris finished modeling all the outfits, she’s been lounging in a flowy cream minidress designed by Harris. They’ve predictably gone a bit misty over Harry wearing their clothes, even though it’s not for tour this time. Adam’s volunteered his handkerchief to stem the tide, and Harry’s laughing and apologising at the same time, hanging off Tom and hiding her neck in his shoulder, embarrassed that she’s affected someone so much. 

Camille watches them all from across the room. 

A very small, very ridiculous part of her is regretting inviting all of these people along for one of the few nights that she and Harry are going to have together while she’s still on tour. The rest of her is rejoicing because _she’s_ done this; she’s given Harry this opportunity to relax and be free. 

Alessandro, who’s also been on the periphery for a little while, joins her in observation. 

“He would make such a beautiful muse for what I’m planning with Gucci soon,” he tells her. 

Camille is confused for a split second before she remembers that while Alessandro might have keen eyes when it comes to Harry, she’s still the only one who refers to her as a woman. This is another point of pride for her — that she’s the first person to give her that recognition.

Alessandro seems to be thinking the same thing, because he continues without giving her a chance to respond.

“You’ve tied yourself to this exploration of his, you know,” he says. “And I fear that if things go wrong between you, Harry will use that as an excuse to curtail himself, and to be less open.” 

Well. What is she meant to say to that? Alessandro’s tone isn’t accusatory, but his words certainly seem to be. 

“I guess it’s a good thing that I don’t plan on letting anything go wrong,” Camille says, not letting herself think about how they very nearly did just a few hours ago.

Alessandro doesn’t say anything else, just pats her on the shoulder and walks over to Harris to compliment them on their designs, setting off a fresh wave of happy tears. 

Everyone scrambles to soothe them, but Harry gets there first, wrapping her arm around Harris and squeezing, a hug solid enough that Camille can see the strength of it from across the room. 

Camille waits for Harry’s crinkling smile to search around the room and alight on her. Camille waits for Harry to come up to her and enfold her in one of those sturdy hugs too, thanking her for how wonderful the night ended up being. Camille waits for Harry to say her goodbyes to everyone else so the two of them can escape, dresses in tow, and make the most of their time before Harry’s sound check at the O2 in the afternoon. 

Camille waits for Harry say, once they’re alone, that she’s so happy her friends were all here tonight, but it’s only Camille who really understands her; and that she can’t wait for them to get back to their hotel room; and that she can’t wait for them to be inside of each other again, because in this way too, only Camille has truly come to know her.

Camille keeps waiting. Harry doesn’t turn her head.


End file.
